The Piano Man
by zoey21q
Summary: A victim of the fast-paced business world and a rule-bending, laid back, self proclaimed hipster find each other, bond, and build a relationship over the only thing that doesn't have any barriers: Music.
1. Chapter 1

"Sing me a song, piano man," he breathed, before reaching across the table in front of him, grabbing the collar of the grey shirt on the man on the other side, and pulling him in for a long, hot kiss.

The end.

**~x~**

He was stirred that morning by his cell phone's shrill ring. In that state of consciousness somewhere between asleep and awake, he pawed blindly at his bedside table, until he found the device vibrating dangerously close to the edge.

"Hello?" he yawned, rubbing his eyes.

"Oh, Mr. Hummel!" a small, squeaky voice gasped. "I'm so sorry, sir! Did I wake you? I can call back in a few minutes if you'd like some time to get—!"

"No, Stacie," he sighed in exasperation. "What is it?" Rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck, he tossed off his sheets and flung his legs over the side of his mattress, only groaning a little bit when he caught sight of his clock reading six-o-five in the morning.

"Well, sir, the people from Vogue had some scheduling issues." He heard papers shuffle on the other end, then Stacie's voice went flat, obviously reading form one of them. "'Due to conflicting engagements, we have been forced to reschedule our meeting previously set for nine a.m. on the sixteenth of May, two-thousand and twenty-two…'"

"Yes…?" he pressed on, throwing his violet comforter on top of his bedspread.

"'Our meeting will now be held via Skype at ten a.m…." Stacie's voice quivered a bit.

"Yes…?"

"Eastern standard time, sir."

There was a moment of silence where Stacie thought her boss may have dropped his phone, before he frantically sputtered, "Stacie, you're a life saver."

Hurriedly, he flicked off his phone and dropped threw it on top of his bed as he dashed to shower.

There was not a moment that morning where he was not cursing someone. He cursed Vogue for being on the east coast. He cursed Skype for making it so easy for people in other time zones to simply 'reschedule'. He cursed his ancestors for deciding that they needed to go to Oregon. And he cursed himself for never plucking up and just moving to the east coast because that would have made his life so much easier and probably would have left him flat broke…

…he could live with the time zone problem. As long as Stacie was there to save his ass every now and then, he would be fine.

Standing in front of his still foggy bathroom mirror, a thought hit him so hard it sent him flying out of the bathroom, his hair still wet and his tooth brush still in his mouth, fumbling through his room for his phone.

He hit redial and spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink.

"Yes, Mr. Hummel, what can I—?"

"Stacie, there is an envelope on my desk labeled 'Vogue.' I need you to take that and scan _all_ of those papers onto my computer. All of them. Got it? I'll be there in a half an hour."

"Yes, sir. Vogue envelope, scan them _all _to your computer. See you in a half hour." Then she hung up.

And he went back to getting ready no less relaxed but one hundred times more prepared.

Two hours later, he sat in his large desk chair, the silver-grey jacket to his suit slung over the back of it, his white shirt rumpled and his black tie loose. He held his head in his hands, his elbow leaned up on his desk and his eyes were closed.

"M-Mr. H-Hummel, sir?" Stacie piped up from the corner of the spacious office. Her long brown hair fell across her face, and she seemed very small, hiding away from the tension.

"That was a train wreck, Stace." He rubbed his eyes and groaned, sinking into his chair. "A train wreck."

"You were fine, sir," she said reassuringly, taking a cautious step towards him.

"They hated it. They hated all of it."

"No they didn't, sir." She continued to make her way over to him. "Sure, they didn't show precisely the enthusiasm we were hoping for but I'm sure that they didn't—"

"And to think for a minute this morning I thought about heading out there. I thought that this would be my chance. I thought that if I got even just a little something in Vogue, I'd finally get known." He dropped his head to the table and groaned again. "I'm an idiot."

"Mr. Hummel…" She scanned the room quickly and found a small rolling chair. She moved it over to the desk and sat to his right, her hands folded in her lap. "Mr. Hummel…" she cleared her throat. "K-Kurt—" she paused when he flinched at being addressed so informally, but continued nonetheless. "K-Kurt, just being considered for Vogue makes you more successful than ninety-nine percent of the people in this business could ever hope to be. And you really did do fine. I thought that they seemed…impressed."

"I bet you I don't even get a picture in. Just a little blurb at the bottom: 'oh yeah, there's this company in Oregon that makes clothes. So go to their website.'" His head popped up and he stared at Stacie, the look in his bright blue eyes somewhere between pleading and something like murderous. "I've dreamt of this since I was eight, Stacie. This is what I've worked my entire life for."

"They came and they saw," Stacie said bluntly. "There is nothing else we can do. Either they like your designs enough to endorse them or not. The only thing worrying about it will do is raise your blood pressure." There was a moment where he just looked at her. "…um…sir."

He sighed. "That would be true if I didn't just screw up the whole thing!" He threw his hands up and leaned back in his chair.

"Um…I'm not sure why you think it went so terribly, sir."

"I couldn't open the pictures. I sat there, for five minutes, in dead silence, in front of four Vogue representatives, clicking and clicking and clicking and clicking and it wouldn't open. I am an _idiot_!"

"It was the computer, sir. I'm sure they understand that." For a moment she hemmed and hawed, then, tentatively, she picked up her hand and set it on his arm. "Sir—Mr. Hum—K-Kurt," she finally blurted out. "When was the last time you had a vacation?"

"I was in Barbados over the holidays, Stacie…" he grumbled.

"I don't mean that kind of vacation. I mean I vacation where you just sat at home and watched movies and ate chocolate and did other things you like to do." She smiled wearily at him. "I'm worried about you. You never seem to rest."

"I own a company, Stacie, I don't rest. I have people to do that for me." He tossed his head back with a dark chuckle.

"As your executive assistant and the person who probably knows you the second best—after only yourself—it would be my recommendation that you take some time." She paused, thinking. "The Vogue article won't be out until June twentieth. It's not like you'd be abandoning the company. We have phones. Just…for your health. I think it could do you some good."

He looked at her. "And what do you propose I do for a month?"

"Well," she began, smiling as she pulled her phone form her pocket. "I would suggest you spend some time up in the mountains for a bit. You always seemed more chipper after those outdoors photo shoots." She began typing furiously. "I would suggest"—she held the device to his face momentarily—"this resort. After that, you could head down to that nice place in Los Angeles you like and go to the beach." Her tone suddenly went serious. "If you don't mind me saying sir, you look like you need some color…"

Kurt just sat in his chair, mildly amused at his lovely assistant's attempts at making him relax, playing with his hair absentmindedly and almost forgetting about Vogue.

"…And then you can come back here and just dawdle about and—" she continued before being cut off.

"I'll make a deal with you, Stacie. I'll take three weeks off if you promise to call me daily with updates." He reached across his desk for his laptop.

"Absolutely, sir!" She looked back at her phone, then back at him. "Would you still like me to make these reservations?"

He took a deep breath and stowed his computer under his arm as he stood. "No. Thank you, though. I think I've got this under control." He then turned on his heels and made his way towards the door of his office.

"Talk to you tomorrow sir."

"Goodbye, Stacie. I sincerely hope you're alive when I get back."

She swallowed hard as she watched him walk down the hall and out the front door of the building. Several other inconspicuous members of his staff were also stirred from their work as the door opened and closed loudly. When he had disappeared, they all turned towards Stacie, standing in the doorway of his office.

"Well…he's going on vacation…and I'm in charge for now…So…please do whatever you're supposed to be doing."

And like robots, they all fell back into their work, and Stacie fell cautiously into Kurt's desk chair, smiling only slightly.

**~x~**

"…Dude…dude, wake up…" a distant voice said. "…Dude, I'm serious, you need to move…" There was a roll of laughter from somewhere. "Dude…you did it again…"

With a yawn, he rubbed his eyes and surveyed his surroundings. He was laying on something hard, and he was surrounded by people. It seemed to be daylight, but he couldn't be sure.

"What…what time is it?" he asked, sitting up, still fully aware of the fact he was sitting on something hard.

"Eh, about eight fifteen," a girl with red hair said casually.

"In the morning?" He cracked his knuckles and noticed that he was elevated.

"In the morning, sunshine." There was another round of laughter.

"Oh, shit." He tried to jump up, but instead, he rolled off of whatever he had been previously perched on, and onto the floor with a hard thud. He popped right back up, though. "I'm going to be late for w—OW!" He grabbed his shoulder as the rest of the people in the room laughed again.

"Calm down," the girl said, leading him to a chair across the room and handing him a mug of coffee. "It's Monday. I'm pretty sure you don't have to be in 'til noon."

He sighed in relief and settled into the chair.

"You did it again," another voice repeated from the back of the room.

He took his mug and furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about, Ted?"

"He's right, man." The girl sat down in a chair opposite him. "It's getting to be a problem."

He downed his cup of coffee in one mouthful before beginning to gag. "Liv, what the hell was that?"

Her face dropped. "It's soy milk…"

"I liked it," Ted chirped up.

"Okay…um…my problem, again…?" He furrowed his brow.

"Ah, yes." Liv moved to sit on the arm of his chair and took his hand. Ted snickered again. "Blaine, dear, you're not Billy Joel."

"You fell asleep at the piano again," Ted added.

"You were up 'til two in the morning. We asked if you were drunk and you didn't say anything." Liv patted his head comfortingly.

"It's not a problem…" he said dejectedly. "It's a hobby."

"Look," Ted cut in. "I know this is your thing and all, but falling asleep on the piano at some ungodly time after hours and _hours_ of playing old music? That's not…good." He smiled reassuringly. "You play piano for a living. Why spend all of your free time doing it too?"

"Because it's what I like to do!" He stood from his chair and stretched. "And I must go and do it or not be able to do it anymore."

"Blaine, you need to get out of this apartment," Liv said, her voice tinged in concern.

"I work for eight and a half hours a day!" He threw his hands up and almost dropped his mug.

"And that's all you do," Ted cut in. "Man, you're twenty-seven and all you do is work and sit around at home playing oldies music on your 'baby.' It's not healthy and it's not normal."

"Normal is boring," Blaine said plainly.

"Yes but…" Ted grumbled a little. "Forget it. You're impossible. I just hope you're ready to die alone." And with that, he stood from his chair and made his way down the hall towards his room.

"I'll always have Liv!" Blaine hollered after him, a look of horror spreading across the face of the girl next to him. "…or a cat…" he added as an after thought.

Live smiled. "Go fix yourself for work. You look like a ball of steel wool." She patted his head tenderly and headed off to the kitchen, leaving Blaine alone in the living room with his piano.

Begrudgingly, he walked by the instrument and headed down the hall. At least he'd be able to just sit and not be bothered there.

Hopefully.

**I'm going to admit, this confused me for a minute, but I finally figured it out. And I like it. I needed another major project, and I think this could be good. I hope you get where I'm going and like this skeleton of a storyline enough to review/subscribe to find out what the hell is going on. **

**Thank you for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well…**

"…But…but Mr. Clark—I play the piano! That's what you hired me to do, that's why I get paid, and that is my job! I'm _not_ a bellboy!"

"My hotel can function without a pianist, Anderson. It cannot, however, do so short my best bellhop." The face of the short, round man across the desk from Blaine remained flat and expressionless as he folded his hands in front of him and looked up. "I'm sorry. I don't know how long Eric will be out, but until he's back, I'd like it if you could take over his position."

Blaine huffed indignantly, furrowing his brow. "And what are my other choices?"

"You can be a bellhop for a while and then return to your position as our wonderful pianist, or you can refuse this offer and try to find somewhere else that will pay you for sitting at a piano and playing whatever the hell you want to all day long." He blinked a few times and shrugged. "It's your choice."

Blaine stared at his boss for a few seconds more, before sighing and letting his head drop, saying weakly, "I understand, sir."

"Thank you, Blaine." He then pointed to a black suit jacket and red tie hanging on the back of the door behind him, and back to Blaine in his loose white button up shirt, sleeves rolled up and collar wrinkled. "Report to the front desk in fifteen minutes. I'll have someone there to clue you in a bit."

Without any other comments, Blaine grabbed the clothes off the hanger and walked out of the cramped office.

He dashed into the bathroom and began to unroll his sleeves, smoothing his collar as he went along. He slid the jacket on and fixed the tie around his neck, shrugging uncomfortably as he buttoned it up tight.

This wasn't right. He did what he did so he didn't have to do this. He was an artist so he didn't have to wear suits and ties and other uncomfortable things. He hated every bit of it.

Settled as he was ever going to be in his new uniform, he made his way to a sink and wet his hands, running them through his mop of hair, doing his best to change his usual, unruly mop into something becoming of a…bellhop.

When he finally looked up into the mirror, the first thing he noticed was the little gold name plate on his lapel that read 'Eric.' For a minute, he thought about storming back into Mr. Clark's office and demanding that at least he have his own identity…but then he saw himself.

It was not himself looking back, but rather what he had spent the entirety of his adult life—and the better half but rather what he had spent the entirety of his adult life—and the better half of his youth—trying not to be: someone somebody else made him be.

So he decided that, at least for now, he would just be Eric.

**~x~**

"…No, I just go here…no, I have not checked in yet…yes, it's lovely…yes, it is one you recommended…absolutely…of course…I hope for your sake it is…yes, I trust you…alright…just making sure…goodbye, Stacie." With a contented sigh, he slid his phone back into his pocket and stepped out of his car, handing over his keys to the valet and hauling two large suitcases out of the trunk. Smiling, he grabbed them each by the handle and headed inside, towards a long, almost vacant marble desk.

"Hello, checking in for Hum—" he began before being cut off by the woman sitting behind a computer.

"Name?" she said in a monotone, never looking up.

He huffed a little bit pursed his lips. "Hummel," he said slowly.

There was a round of clicking before, "Kurt Hummel?"

"Yes."

She handed him two keycards and a small map of the hotel. "Would you like some help with your bags?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone wearing a black suit and tie stand up straight from where he had been leaning against the wall on the other end of the desk, and with a pained expression, begin making his way towards where Kurt stood.

"Oh, um…no thank you. I think I've got it." And the figure stopped in his tracks. "Thank you again."

Kurt took his bags and his map to the elevator, where he quickly found his suit.

Once there, he promptly collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Now what?" he asked himself. Slowly, he sat back up and looked around him. It was nothing extravagant, really: A small kitchen, a sizable television, a nice bed and a balcony overlooking the lobby of the hotel, all clad in standard hotel beiges and blues.

It was nice and comfortable and that's all he wanted.

Then his phone rang again.

"…Yes, Stacie, I'm checked in…!"

**~x~**

That night Blaine had to work until midnight as a freakin' bellhop. Usually, midnight isn't very late at all. At night, all of the drunken people from the bar on the far end of the hotel start their way back to their rooms, and he usually would be sitting at the piano, providing background music for their sauntering, or picking old songs they might know the words to. Most nights he would be just as entertained as the guests.

But tonight he would be going home tired and achy and unfulfilled as an artist and probably whiny to his roommates.

Or he would have if the lobby hadn't been completely empty and the piano completely unguarded.

So he slipped off Eric's jacket and he stepped over the velvet rope around it and he slowly lifted the lid and sighed. His baby-grand at home was his pride and joy: hours spent refurbishing it and even longer just…spending time with it, but this piano was something else. It was new and shiny and huge in comparison to his. It was perfectly in tune and everything about it was just perfect.

Slowly, he set his hands down and sighed. _This_ is what he did. _This_ was how he made his living. _This_ is what he wanted to do.

So he did.

And it felt so good to be back were he belonged.

If just being away from this for one day left him feeling this drained and disconnected, he hoped that Eric would get over whatever was going on with him and get his ass back to work fast.

He never really liked Eric…and now he supposed he had a reason.

He kept playing for a long time. He never noticed anyone walk through the lobby, or bustle behind the desk, and it almost seemed like the universe was content with letting him be.

**~x~**

At one in the morning, when there is nothing on television and your vacation is already becoming more of a job than your actual career, there is not a whole lot you can do than pace up and down in your hotel room in your boxers and bathrobe, wondering why you're not tired.

So Kurt paced. And while he paced, he talked to himself, an odd habit one can form when they live alone.

"…Stacie planned everything, right? I should have gotten an email from her hours ago, right?" He pulled his phone from the pocket of his silk robe and checked his email again. Nothing.

Only more frustrated than before, he stormed across the room to the balcony and threw open the door. He leaned up against the railing and was seriously regretting not requesting a room with an _outside_ balcony when something caught his attention.

Or rather, someone caught his attention.

Perched at the piano he had thought was just for show, was a man in a rumpled white shirt, playing along peacefully.

The tune was vaguely familiar, slow and easy and a little sad, and though he couldn't really see, the man seemed to be playing with his eyes closed.

Then he started singing.

"_When you try your best, but you don't succeed…when you get what you want but not what you need….when you feel so tired but you can't sleep…stuck in reverse_…" he sang, seemingly unaware of the world.

He had a nice voice. It was one of those voices that made it almost impossible to be anything less than happy while listening to it. It calmed him down and for a second, he almost forgot that he was on a forced vacation, waiting for his assistant to plan the next month of his life, standing alone on a balcony in a bathrobe.

It almost did. Until his phone made a sharp 'ding,' saying that he had received an email. A sharp, very loud 'ding.'

Abruptly, the playing stopped, and Kurt rand back into his room, closing the door to the balcony securely behind him. And even as he read down his itinerary gratefully, he hoped that there would be time at midnight for him to sit on the balcony and listen to the mysterious pianist.

**Okay. Honesty time. I have another great idea brewing in my head right now, an idea that I like a whole lot better than this one. Do you like it? Honestly, is it something you're interested in reading more of or should I stop here and let my brain take over my better, more developed (possibly hotter) story? Because this is becoming more of a burden to me than anything else and it's only chapter 2. **


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